"Youth today don't see how it is"
In my Sunday best, a gold ensemble accessorized with sun-hat & dark frame sunglasses, I patiently stand nattering with the corral outside the House of worship. When a bass-thumping low-rider snappishly breaks at an adjacent intersection, I begin editorializing the downfall of our youth by invoking scripture as ammunition. My humble audience of four: grandma Bonita, wife Cynthia, old friends Samuel and wife Laura supportively harmonize in Mm-h-mm's to my sprawling oratory. Shaking my head, I end "Youth today don't see how it is," like I always do.
Reserving our usual seats by setting my hat, dress-coat and cane across four chairs prior to sermon, I go to slap handshakes with men I grew up with. This neighborhood is tight. We laugh squint-eyed, cackling at each others nicknames and reminiscing past calamities at some infamous Summer barbeques. We peck and hug each others wife. We wear similar hues of gold. We wish each other Happy Easter.
Reserving our usual seats by setting my hat, dress-coat and cane across four chairs prior to sermon, I go to slap handshakes with men I grew up with. This neighborhood is tight. We laugh squint-eyed, cackling at each others nicknames and reminiscing past calamities at some infamous Summer barbeques. We peck and hug each others wife. We wear similar hues of gold. We wish each other Happy Easter.